Use Your Hands to Feed the Birds
by Eurus Rantipole
Summary: One of the most dangerous alliances that has ever come to bear on Gotham City. Gets good around Chapter Five, but you'll need the other chapters for some context.
1. Roommate Issues

Well.

It wasn't that he hadn't foreseen this as a likely eventual outcome.

…

He had just rather hoped 'eventually' would have lasted a bit longer.

 _Doctor_ Jonathan Crane hefted a silent sigh and lent his head back against the metal walls of the van. The straightjacket itched something terrible and his arms ached from remaining in their forced contortion for so long, but he strived to force these petty discomforts to the back of his mind. He refused to fidget and squirm like some weak-minded imbecile.

His 'partners in crime' lined the benches around and across from him. He ignored them as well, staring at the wall opposite as though deaf to their self-piteous groaning. He comforted himself with the knowledge that he would soon be far removed from them, doubtless to be contained in some high security cell.

Even when captured, the Master of Fear did not 'bunk' with low-grade criminals and lackeys.

A slow blink was his only acknowledgement when the van finally ground to a half outside Arkham Asylum. _His_ asylum. Oh, the irony was not lost on him, but he found it difficult to be amused, especially when such irony was likely to be continuously shoved down his throat during his time here. Even the _Batman_ hadn't been able to resist bringing it up, and that oversized demented rat didn't quip about _anything._

Ah well. Thus his punishment for growing sloppy. Next time would not be so.

The guards unlocked and opened the back doors of the van. A wheelchair had been brought down – all nice and set for him to be snuggly strapped in. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes in disdain – as though such devices could _actually_ prevent his escape.

Naturally, they ordered him to step out first – they wanted him inside and secured within Arkham's rotting walls as soon as possible. For perhaps the first time since his capture, Jon was actually gratified by procedure. Better to be locked in a quiet cell than to be stuck in this dirty caravan of fools any longer.

He raised himself up with as much dignity as he could manage, with the cursed apparatus holding him in awkward embrace, and descended into the waiting hands of the orderlies, who promptly ordered him into the chair and strapped him in, tightly. Again, he refused to betray any sign that he felt any discomfort from their unnecessary roughness. He knew better than to feed the appetite of a sadist.

A guard wheeled him around and through the asylum's doors, with two other guards stepping up to flank him on either side. He sat, dispassionately staring straight ahead, as they passed through the empty hallway towards the elevator which would bring them to the lower levels, where the inmates were kept. The doctors had their offices in the upper levels, in a rather tasteless symbolic pyramid of status. Of course, he _had_ helped design it that way.

There was no elevator music, going down. No unnecessary auditory stimuli to distract the patient from their predicament. Just the typical whining of old cables as they strained to support the weight of the lift, and the rattle of the cage as they descended. Jon let the silence slip over him like a well-worn glove.

And was jarred out of it by a quiet chuckle from the guard on his right.

Crane glanced over, annoyed. "You find something amusing…," he squinted in the dim flickering light of the elevator's one cracked bulb, "Janus?"

"Not supposed to talk to the patients, Jan," the guard on his left mumbled nervously, while the one behind him retained his stoic silence.

Janus ignored his colleague. "Just anticipating," he replied obscurely, grinning like a mischievous child whose sister is about to discover the frog surreptitiously placed in her pocket.

Crane frowned. He disliked surprises. He especially disliked surprises in a decrepit asylum governed by a panel of unethical doctors and a troop of corrupt orderlies. Still, Janus appeared unwilling to remove the veil of mystery. Playing _coy_. How _cute._ Well he wasn't about to _beg_ for information.

Whatever it was, he'd deal with it in due course. Then fear gas this idiot for being such a melodramatic fool. He was the God of Terror, dammit. He _demanded_ respect.

The elevator dinged and a cool female voice announced they had reached floor 06. The doors slid open and he was wheeled out, past the clear-walled holding cells. Of those high-ranked patients Gotham's media had sensationalized as "Rogues."

As they passed the sealed frozen chamber of Victor Fries, Jon sent a small prayer out into the void that the Joker was not currently one of Arkham's present inmates. If that… _creature_ , wasn't the most obnoxious, irritating, self-important…

"Well, well. If it isn't Doctor _Spooky_. I thought you might be joining us in here one day. Riddle me this: I have no form, no voice, no smell, nor taste, yet I can drive a man insane, or even kill him dead –"

Why were they slowing down? These cells were all occupied…

"I can inspire brilliance or dull minds and the sharpest of minds are apt to feel me most keenly, as Holmes might attest."

Oh, no…surely not…surely Arkham had not degenerated so quickly and so thoroughly during his absence for doctor's to sanction _this..._?

 _"What am I?"_ Hands clasped arrogantly behind his back, Edward Nygma grinned at him across the Plexiglass barrier, one foot crossed over the other in his trademark cocksure stance. The orderlies began removing Crane's restraints, confirming his suspicions as he stared at the Riddler with growing horror.

"What is the meaning of this?" Crane demanded, doing his utmost not to sound as desperate as he felt. "Patients above Level Four are _not_ to be held together –"

"Last I checked, you wasn't a doctor here no more," the guard behind him grumbled, finally breaking his silence. "Just be happy you didn't get sent to Blackgate like ya shoulda been…."

"Listen, you imbecile," Crane hissed, finally losing his long-kept composure as the last buckle finally released and the orderlies began forcing him to his feet, "I _will not_ stay in the same cell as _Edward Nygma_. If you don't put me somewhere else, I swear, I will fear gas this entire—"

"Shut it Crane," the orderly snapped, cuffing him upside the head for emphasis as Janus punched in the code to open the cell. "Cutbacks are cutbacks, can't afford to give each of you nutters your own personal suite. _Back Nygma,"_ he barked, breaking away from his diatribe to send the aforementioned to the back corner of his cell. Soon to be _their_ cell. Jon shuddered.

Obediently, the obsessive-compulsive man child retreated, assuming a wounded expression as he went. "Why, Jonny, I thought you _enjoyed_ the company of brilliant minds. Or are you simply intimidated by the prospect of spending your days in the presence of such an evolved genius?"

"I say," he continued, wrinkling his nose in distaste and reaching up to hold his chin in a show of mock contemplation, "Did you condone this level of cleanliness when _you_ ran this dump? I mean, I get a total remodeling might be out of the scope of the budget, but some clean sheets might be nice once in a while. Then again, you never _did_ seem to care about hygiene or patient welfare, as I recall. Of course, _I_ always knew what you were up to, down in the basement, but I bet it was a _deliciously nasty_ shock to everyone else. Tell me, what did the other doct—"

"SHUT UP!" Crane roared. He spun around, _somehow_ managing to catch three trained guards by surprise before they tackled him. Even then, he put up quite a struggle, as they forced him backward into the cell.

Janus, through it all, remained beaming in apparent amusement despite the sweat trickling down his brow as the three of them wrestled with the 6'0", 140lb ex-psychiatrist.

"Whew," he giggled, "Man, this is great. Best entertainment we've had in months…"

Time seemed to stand still for a moment, as the four men strained in a moment of perfect equilibrium on the threshold of the cell, while Nygma rambled on obliviously in the back. Then the bubble burst, as the combined strength of the guards finally overpowered Jon's resistance. The Plexiglass barrier was back in place nearly before he hit the ground.

"Oh, hello!" Nygma beamed down at him merrily, "Finally decided to give in, huh? No point resisting fate, or as I like to call it, the Will of the Man with the Pharmaceuticals. Nasty stuff, Thorazine. Did you, perchance, solve my riddle? Probably not. The answer was _boredom_. I rather thought the hint with Holmes was a bit obvious, but it's impossible for me to know what an inferior mind will be able to deduce. I've been so _dreadfully_ bored in here...have to wait till night to sneak out….," he sniggered. "Did you know some of the guards keep _video diaries_? You wouldn't belie—"

Jon groaned and moved to bury his head in his hands, wanting desperately to block out the Puzzle Prince's obnoxiously lilting voice, only to realize that the guards had neglected to remove the straightjacket.

Silence indeed.

Across the Plexiglass, Jon was dimly aware of Janus cheerily waving goodbye, as his comrades headed back to the elevator, wheelchair in tow.

"Good luck! Maybe if I'm feeling generous, I'll remove that jacket tomorrow. Then again, maybe not… you never _did_ pay us guards very well when you were head," Janus winked conspiratorially, "Ta, ta! Enjoy your new roomie!"

* * *

Meanwhile, in her upstairs office, Doctor Leland furrowed her brow and pushed up her glasses as she blinked confusedly at the man opposite her.

"Why exactly are we putting two obsessive, narcissistic personalities in the same cell together? I have several more rooms available on that floor, all perfectly suitable for Doctor Crane's treatment…."

"Because _some_ people think Batman doesn't have a sense of humor," grumbled the black-caped giant as he turned to leave, while Robin sniggered quietly outside the window.


	2. The Straightjacket Conundrum

Why couldn't he have gotten _Dent_ as a cellmate? Hell, he would have even suffered _Isley's_ feminist rants rather than endure one more second of living in the same airspace as *sigh*…. _Nygma_.

" _Still_ nothing? Very well, riddle me _this_ —"

"Edward," Jon bit out from behind gritted teeth, "For the fourteenth and I hope to be _final_ time, I will not demean myself by answering any of your idiotic riddles."

" ** _Idiotic_**?" Nygma tilted his head almost curiously at Jon, a dangerous glint coming into his eyes. Slowly, he began to rise from his cot, opposite Jon's own in the severely cramped space. Sitting on his own mattress, Jon cursed inwardly. Yes, Nygma was an infuriating prat with false delusions of self-grandeur, but he was also fiercely protective of said delusions. Meanwhile, he also had two free hands, while Jon was still stuck in this accursed straightjacket.

He was sure the guards would be happy to sit on the sidelines and cheer Nygma on while the riddle-obsessed freak strangled the life out of him. After all, it was the doctors who had approved their sharing a room, despite the obvious dangers inherent in such an ill-conceived decision. If anyone was in danger of being penalized for negligence, it would be them.

"Truth," he snapped, consoling his wounded pride with the image of him, straightjacket-less, smothering Nygma with his own pillow.

Edward stopped, one foot still poised in front of the other, as a confused frown replaced the beginnings of a snarl. "What?"

" _Truth!"_ Crane barked, with a snarl of his own. "'I illuminate without light, rarely seen yet always in plain sight.' The answer to your last _riddle_." He shuffled partially away on the bed so that he could keep Nygma in his peripheral but not have to stare at him. "Now, will you leave me in peace?" he paused. "Well, _silence_ will do."

Edward blinked, then slowly resumed his seat, a grin spreading across his features.

"So, it _does_ know how to play. I was beginning to lose hope. At any rate, that riddle was _far_ too easy. Sharpen your wits on—"

Jon jerked around, plastering an unconvincing smile on his face. "I have a better idea. How abo—"

Edward interrupted, looking at him askance. "Are you…having a seizure or something? Your face looks very… _odd_."

Jon let the unnatural grin drop, his features settling into a comfortable scowl. "I'm **fine**."

"Oh," Edward said, looking a little relieved, "Your face was spasming and your lips were all…contorted…really, I don't understand why you bother with the burlap when you're capable of making faces like _that_."

"Well, it is rather helpful in the presence of my toxin," Jon replied dryly, "Anyway, why don't we _up_ the stakes in your little game? Make it more…. _Interesting_."

"What, you want _prizes_?" Nygma snorted with a roll of his eyes. "Don't exactly have anything on hand at the moment, although I suppose I could give you one of my Monet's after I escape. I've rather turned off impressionism. Too tranquil…Oh!" he snapped his fingers as the metaphorical light bulb went off. "The best reward of all! I'll let _you_ ask _me_ a riddle!" He bobbed his head in enthusiastic appreciation of his own genius.

Crane had forced himself to sit quietly with what he hoped was an expression of polite interest throughout Nygma's diatribe, but was probably more one of disgusted impatience. This man tweaked his nerves far too much to maintain a convincing poker face.

"As _tempting_ as that offer sounds," he said finally, trying not to let the sarcasm completely saturate his tone, "I was thinking something more along the lines of…removing this straightjacket?" He lifted his crossed arms as much as possible for emphasis.

Edward pouted. "That's not _nearly_ as good as getting to ask _me_ a riddle. Really Crane, I'm disappointed by your lack of imagination."

 _Oh, I'll show you_ imagination, Crane seethed inwardly. _Let's see how many riddles you can spout after I hook you up to an IV drip of toxin…_

"Well, I _am_ rather uncomfortable," he said aloud instead, trying to look ingratiating. "And I know how _adept_ you are at solving puzzles. How fast, I wonder could you get me out of this thing…"

"Oh," Nygma smirked. "Very fast indeed. You know the guards never bothered to take mind of either. It's quite easy to remove, once you get past the immediate discomfort of further contorting your joints…"

Jon resisted the urge to scowl again. He didn't enjoy being shown up by anyone and the sensation of being one-upped by the Riddler was most unpleasant indeed. "You can do it then?" he asked shortly, temporarily losing even the vestige of respect.

"Of course!" Edward looked insulted. "But first, the riddle—

 _Held in the highest regard, men constantly covet me, constantly fear from me, kill for me, die for me._

 _Yet I was never more than a rebel's pretty dream._

"Liberty," Jon answered without missing a beat. "Oh," he realized, seeing Edward's taken aback expression. "Uh…liberty?" he repeated more hesitantly, trying to look as though it had been at least a _little_ difficult. Best not to risk wounding Nygma's pride right at the moment.

"…Correct," Edward said slowly, eyes narrowed rather suspiciously. "You got that one rather quickly, although I cannot fathom how you might be cheating as I just came up with it on the spot. At any rate," he rose, "A deal's a deal. Time me, will you? My record is 2 minutes, 26 seconds. I should expect it will take exponentially less time removing someone else's…"

"Edward," Jon mumbled around a thicket of ginger hair, gagging slightly, "Would you mind terribly moving your head?  
"Sure thing," the Riddler replied, stepping back as he spoke with the straightjacket in hand and a grin on his face. "Better?"

" _Much_ …." Jon stretched out his arms and flexed his fingers in relief before landing a solid right hook to Nygma's temple, knocking the taller man flat out cold on the floor, "Better."

?/?/?/?/?/?/?

* * *

:-{} :-{} :-{}

Janus did actually make an appearance later, rolling a cart in front of him laden with two trays of food and a pitcher of water.

"I volunteered for the job," he told Jon conversationally as he once again punched in the code. "Wanted to see how our newest reality show was going down here. Where's Riddle Man?"

"He decided to take a nap," Jon replied, barely containing his smirk.

"Oh, _really_?" Janus replied with a smirk of his own. "I see he was kind enough to remove that jacket of yours. Technically I'm obligated to remove it within 24 hours to avoid muscle damage, but your friend here always has it off and waiting for us whenever we come to do it. Anyway, here's supper. Finger food only, lest you get any nefarious plans involving spoons."

"More Joker's area, really. I prefer not to get my hands bloody," Jon replied nonchalantly, inspecting the preservative-infused Depression-era inspired crap. " _Dinosaur chicken fingers_? Really? What are we, _toddlers_?"

"Well, you certainly _act_ it," Janus retorted, eyeing Nygma's prone form with something wavering between respect and trepidation. "You didn't kill him, did you? He's not that bad, once you get past the egoism, obsessive mania, riddle compulsions, bad fashion sense…"

"I checked his pulse," Jon interrupted briskly, tentatively nibbling on a carrot stick before spitting it out in disgust. "He should regain consciousness within a few hours with no lasting injury. "How did you manage to ruin _carrots_?"

"Hey, don't blame me, I pack my own lunch," Janus stepped out again and closed the Plexiglass. "Be back tomorrow with breakfast. May your dreams satisfy all your sadistic impulses, for Eddie's sake."

"Doubtful. I don't dream," Jon replied, reaching for the water pitcher.

"Poor Eddie," Janus clucked his tongue and shook his head as he wheeled the cart away.


	3. Revenge is Best Served Green

"Owww…. _damn_ it Batman…" Edward groaned, groggily reaching up to gingerly touch the side of his aching head. Slowly, he blinked his eyes open – to little effect, however, surrounded by darkness as he was.

Beneath him was a hard, ripped mattress, around him an oppressive atmosphere permeated by the smell of mildew, and that strangely repulsive odor every hospital seemed to have, inherently. Well, that solved it then. Arkham. He was in Arkham. His lairs sometimes had the mildew, but _never_ the hospital smell.

Shit, his head was positively _splitting_. Had he just arrived then? No. Much as he might not want to admit it, he had clearly been wearing this jumpsuit for quite some time, judging from the smell. Then why did he have this vile headach-

Wait.

Was that _breathing_?

Someone _else's_ breathing?

In _his_ cell?

He didn't share a room with anyone at Arkham – he was the Riddler! The Prince of Puzzles! The King of Conundrums! The audacity! The nerve! Why, he'd-

Oh.

It all came rushing back, suddenly forcing Edward to drop back down on the pillow and clasp his head in response to the brain-freeze like sensation.

 _Scarecrow._

Oh, that _skinny bastard_.

He'd get him for this. And after he was so nice to take off the man's straightjacket.

Still clutching his head, Ed rolled over and fished under the mattress for his handy remote. Fashioned during his first term at Arkham, he had (ingeniously) matched it to the frequency of the very same mechanism that controlled the opening and closing of that pesky door. As long as he had the remote, he could come and go as he pleased, at his own leisure. And if it was ever taken (a complication he had yet to encounter, throughout all of his periods here), he could always build another.

It was quite _simple_ , really _._ He really didn't understand why they even bothered with the code and the lock. With the others – _sure_ , it wasn't like _they_ would ever come up with something so resourceful, but they might as well just give _him_ free reign over the place.

No matter. He got his way whether they approved it or not.

In a few minutes, Edward was making his way out the cell and towards the elevator, slipping the small remote in his sock as he went. No one ever thought to search the socks. Yet another error on their part.

No one tricked the Riddler and got away with it. Crane had no idea what was coming for him.

 _Crap his head hurt…._

?/?/?/?/?/?/?

* * *

:-{} :-{} :-{}

Jonathan Crane slept like a corpse on any given night, accustomed to the nightmarish visitations of his _other half_ as he was. Therefore, it followed that when he rose, he did so as the undead might, eyes ringed by dark circles, skin pale and ghastly. His sharp cheekbones only reinforced his morbid visage.

Of course, usually when he woke up, zombie-like or not, he was in the same place as when he fell asleep.

"What," Poison Ivy growled, lurking over him dangerously as he lay in a heap on the floor, "Are you doing in my cell?"

 _What?!_

"Doctor….Isley," Jon said slowly, remaining prone on the floor and not moving to get up, "I am afraid I am almost just as confused as you are."

 _Why was his arm all sore?_

"Rhetorical question, _Crane_ ," Ivy bit out, pressing her foot into his shoulder to keep him from getting up. Jon winced as his shoulder blade scraped on the concrete floor. _Damn! That was soreness from a needle prick! He'd been sedated….Nygma!_ "I want you **_out_**."

"Perhaps," Jon said, trying not to let his expression reveal his fury, "if I was allowed to rise, I might be able to find some way of remedying this…. _unfortunate_ situation."

 _Next time, it would be more than a blow to the head Nygma would be getting. He would_ kill _the narcissistic clown for this. **No one** used a needle on **him**._

On his feet, Jon took in his surroundings with one quick, sweeping glance. The Plexiglass barrier, of course, was firmly in place. He was stuck in here, with Gotham's #1 murderous radical botanist, until a guard came.

So. Stalling time.

"I believe we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, Doctor," Jonathan said, turning to her with his most amicable expression, and attempting to encourage her reasonable sensibilities with the professional title. "Perhaps-"

"Oh no," Pamela said, scowling, "There's no 'wrong foot' to get off on here. I don't like you, and you, I'm sure, don't really care for me, either. That's really all besides the point, though, because this is **_my_** cell, and you are currently **_in it_**. So here's the deal: if you don't **_remove_** yourself from my cell within the next two minutes, the guards are going to be doing it **_for_** you. And I can assure you, you won't be going back to wherever you came from in quite the….well, I wouldn't call it 'good,' but you won't be going back in the condition in which you came."

Well. The good doctor was at least making it easy as far as giving him more time.

"Look," he said, "The doctors decided it was suddenly advisable to begin putting patients in the same cell together. Under that _bizarrely absurd_ philosophy, they chose to put me in the same cell as _Edward Nygma._ I assure you, I am not here of my own accord. I would _never_ invade your privacy in such an unrespectable manner. I'm sure it's Edward's idea of a jok-"

Poison Ivy quirked an eyebrow. "This is really how you're going to spend your two minutes? Talking bullshit? Really, Crane, if you had the opportunity or the time, I'm sure you'd have no qualms about sticking me with a needle and pumping me full of fear gas just to satisfy your perverted fascinations."

 _Well. She had him there._

"The point is," he continued, still trying to sound patient and calm despite the rising panic as his clock ran out, "I don't _know_ how to open the Plexiglass. I _can't_ leave. Now-"

"Well, that sure is sad for you, huh?" Isley studied her green-tinged fingernails for a second before dropping her hand and stepping forward. "Time's up."

"Hey Ivy, hey Scares," Janus chirped, interrupting the confrontation as he strolled past, cart full of food trays and medicine bottles in tow.

"Janus!" Jon never thought he'd be happier to see an Arkham guard in his life, especially one who had just referred to him as 'Scares.'

A few paces ahead, Janus paused, then slowly backtracked, peering in the cell at a pathetic-looking, bedraggled Jonathan Crane and a **_very_** cross Poison Ivy.

"Uh…was there a room switch I wasn't aware of in the middle of the night?" he asked bemusedly before a horrified expression began to dawn on his features. "Oh no…you _did_ kill Eddie!"

"No, you idiot!" Jon snapped, finally losing even the last reserves of his patience. "He's trying to kill **_me_** now. He dumped me in here with **_her._** "

Janus scratched his head, the horrified expression gone. "Well you _did_ kind'a knock him upside the head."

"Janus." Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, entirely at his wits end, "Get me. The FUCK. Out of here. Now."

"Sure, Spooky," Janus said, going over to unlock the door, half-grinning already.

And that, of course, was when Ivy irritably knocked him out with a neat elbow to the back of the head.

So it was that an unconscious Scarecrow was dragged out of Poison Ivy's cell and hauled along to Eddie's cell along with dried breakfast sausage and soggy toast.


	4. Turning Point

Most people, upon being knocked out by a blow to the head, return to the waking world slowly, gradually, as their scrambled senses re-orient themselves in a foggy daze.

Crane though, jerked awake suddenly and abruptly, chased into concrete reality by the terrifying image of that straw-built demon after whom he had taken his own name. Upon taking stock of himself, though, he almost wished he could return to his nightmare.

He was back in his quarters with Nygma – that much was evident by the collection of riddles and question marks scrawled on the walls in various shades of green. One small problem … (barring, of course, the obvious _host_ of problems presented by this quick observation).

He was handcuffed to the bed.

Angrily, he jerked his hands a few times at the steel constraints – in vain. Beyond chaffing his skin against the metal, his efforts accomplished nothing.

"Awake, I see. _Finally_. Riddle me this – 'A blow to the head may silence me briefly, but when I awake, I return with a _vengeance_.' … Any _guesses_?"

"Edward," Jon hissed, " _Release_ me."

"What, so you can knock my lights out again? Maybe even… _permanently_ , this time?" Edward snorted, appearing from behind the bed and stepping into Jon's line of vision.

Immediately, Jon swung himself around, trying to throw a kick from his awkward position, but Nygma neatly dodged the attack.

" _Exactly_ my point. I don't think so."

"You think you can keep me like this forever, Edward? They'll never allow it," Jon growled in frustration, regretfully returning to his original position.

"If I _have_ to, _yes_. But I was _rather_ hoping we might be able to come to an agreement of sorts, seeing as we appear to be _stuck together_ , at least until we, inevitably, escape. After all, this arrangement was devised by a force currently beyond _either_ of our control.

"…And you are referring to…" Jon prompted as Nygma trailed off into silence. Yes, he was fulfilling his role in the man's script, but his curiosity _had_ been piqued. It didn't sound like Edward was simply talking about the Arkham staff.

"Well, while I was upstairs retrieving the proper sedative for your little _trip,_ Edward paused, smirking as Jon's face darkened dangerously, "It occurred to me that I might see if there was anything I could do as far as _relocating_ you to more…. _hospitable_ quarters. Little enough digging revealed that our little _set-up_ was suggested by none other than – well, guess."

"I'm afraid I don't quite have all the necessary facts _to_ make an educated guess, Edward," Jon said stiffly.

"Hmm. So, in other words, you don't _know_. Well, I'll admit even I was a bit flummoxed. I had my suspicions of course, but I thought them rather far-fetched, that is, until they were _verified_. Even then…you see, Crane, this was all the _Batman's_ idea.

"What?" Jon sat up, shocked. "That's …that is ridiculous, Edward. Why would the _Bat_ want us _together?_ "

"You expect _me_ to know?" Edward threw up his hands in exasperation. "The man dresses up as a _bat_ for crying out loud, and skulks about rooftops. I know I _am_ a master of deduction, but I can't be expected to understand the reasoning of a deluded madman."

"As I recall," Jon smirked, snatching at the opportunity to verbally taunt his captor, "Your dress wasn't exactly demonstrative of the height of fashion either, a few years back…. _Spandex?"_

Edward's face colored. "I was just _starting out_ ," he protested. "I had to make a statement, and it showed off my figure so nicely, at any rate – anyway," he suddenly cut himself off, eyes narrowing, "if you're suggesting I'm at _all_ anything like the _Batman_ , I – "

"Never mind," Jon interrupted tiredly, "You couldn't forge a note or….or a message to somehow separate us?"

Edward slumped forward, hands clasped at his knees as he sat on the bed's edge. "The Bat _personally_ requested this of the doctors. He didn't _seem_ to have any particular reason behind it. Based on his tone, and I don't think I've ever heard the big lug amused by _anything_ , I was rather under the impression that this was his idea of a joke."

"They recorded the meeting, I gather?" Crane asked.

"And left the tape unguarded, in an unlocked drawer. Clearly Arkham's medical staff is little concerned by the threat of well-deserved lawsuits. As far as forging a note…" Edward shrugged. "It could be done. And there are about fifty other ways we could avoid remaining together. The easiest of which would be to simply let you out of my cell to do as you please at all hours until they condescend to meet our demands. I, after all, am much more considerate with my self-bestowed freedoms than I believe _you_ would be.

"And why is it that we will _not_ be pursuing this course of action?" Jon asked, repositioning himself to relieve the pressure on his wrists. How long had he been like this? His hands were numb…

Edward's eyes traveled up to the movement of Jon's hands, which instantly stilled. "If I take those off…" he began slowly, "You promise to behave rationally and not…*ahem* react _aggressively_?"

"Would you even believe me if I said 'yes'?" Jon retorted, blue eyes cold.

"Thus far, I've taken you to be one of the more _honorable_ rogues, Jonathan. Now, you are perfectly free to prove me _wrong_ in this regard, but I still would rather advise against any further demonstrations of mindless brutality, on your end. We share a mutual foe, after all."

"Hardly 'mindless,' Edward. I could have been far more 'brutal,' as you put it. As it stands, I simply incapacitated you just enough to achieve a certain measure of peace."

"Regardless. My question still stands."

"I see no value in attacking you, at this point in time. You have nothing to fear from me….currently."

"Well, doesn't _that_ present a delightful little oxymoron," Edward mumbled, leaning down to fiddle with his left sock before standing up, tiny silver key in hand. "I have nothing to fear from the Master of Fear."

" _Currently,"_ Jonathan corrected sharply.

"Yes, yes, you made your point…." Edward said dismissively, leaning over the bed to reach Jon's hands.

"I've already had your hair in my mouth _once_ already, Nygma. I can assure you, one experience of the kind was _more_ than enough," Jon said, moving away to the side while the other man played with the lock.

"Well, I suppose going at it from behind _would_ have been easier," Edward admitted, stepping back with the handcuffs. "But you've got to give the guards _something_ to gossip about."

"What?" Jon asked distractedly, busy rubbing feeling back into his blood-deprived hands.

"Me. Stretched over you, handcuffed to a bed," Edward grinned mischievously over his shoulder as he secreted the key away again. "People might talk."

Jon froze. Then – "Well, I doubt it's the first time either of us have been on the receiving end of such tasteless insinuations."

Edward stood and went back to his cot, wrinkling his nose. "Quite. I don't suppose you ever heard what some of the orderlies were suggesting about me and Tetch?"

Jon cleared his throat. "I never was one for gossip…."

Edward shook his head disgustedly. "Just as well. Why they ever thought _I_ would be interested in another _Rogue_ , and a perverted, delusional _pedophile_ at that…"

"Yes, well," Jon said, growing bored, and, in truth, slightly uncomfortable at all touching on the sexuality of Edward Nygma. "Back to what we were discussing before…"

"Ah yes, Batman, Batman, Batman," Edward sighed dramatically, laying back and steepling his fingers. "We could, as previously established, foil this arrangement of his quite easily – but why? The way _I_ see it, the Bat may have just made a huge mistake by indulging a rare fit of humor. After all, an alliance of the Scarecrow and the Riddler would probably inspire no inconsiderable amount of dread, in both him and the general populace. "

"You're suggesting an _alliance?"_

"Think about it! What better way of exacting our revenge?"

"So…essentially, because the Batman forced us to co-reside in Arkham against our wills, we're now agreeing to….. _co-reside in Arkham_? In the same cell? As Batman demanded? And….this, _this_ is our way of 'sticking it to the man?'"

"Well, yes," Edward said, looking a little deflated at Jon's bland tone.

His spirits were soon lifted though, as a chilling grin spread across Jon's features.

" _I like it."_

 _"_ I _thought_ you might," Edward said, quickly regaining his smug demeanor. "But now we have reached the juncture in our situation when it becomes prudent to lay down _ground rules_."

"I won't attack you physically again, Edward," Crane sighed, "At least not without _warning._ And provided I am not _provoked._ "

"Hardly a very encouraging assurance, with all of those rather arbitrary conditions," Edward snorted, "But I suppose, given the nature of the individuals involved in this deal, a bit of subjectivity must be allowed."

Jon held up a finger, "I have my own conditions, Edward."

"By all means."

"You will cease to address me with any of your usual condescension. And no more riddles."

"No more _riddles_?!" Edward seemed almost dumbfounded by Crane's audacity. "I am the _Riddler,_ Doctor Crane. You suggest I renounce my trade, simply for the sake of a petty alliance against the Batman? You suggest I carve out my heart for a trivial bit of reprisal? You–"

"Just," Jon interrupted Edward's sputtering tirade, "when interacting with _me_."

"No. I won't do it."

"Then it appears this conversation is at a close."

Edward narrowed his eyes. "I'm not demanding _you_ give up your _fear gas_ for this. You're being ridiculous, Jon."

Jon paused. Perhaps he was. Did he care?

Well, it would be a shame to let such an opportunity go to waste….Edward _had_ had a point when he suggested this as perfect revenge.

"One riddle a day. Then you leave me in peace."

"Ten."

"Two."

"Seven."

"Five."

"Six."

" _Five,_ " Jon glared at Edward icily.

"…Oh, _fine_. _Five_. Since you're _so_ intent on avoiding any sort of mental taxation. I make no promises about not patronizing you, by the way. … But I will….endeavor…. to treat you respectfully. You've earned it, I suppose."

…

"Thank you."

"Any more _conditions_?"

"….I believe that covers it."

"Well, then," Edward started, raising himself up and unnecessarily brushing off the pants of the irredeemably filthy prison jumpsuit, "All that remains…"

He held out his hand.

Jon studied it for a moment before slowly grasping it with his own, and allowing Edward to give it a firm shake.


	5. New Insights

It was, Jon thought to himself during his first night spent in the company of Edward Nygma, going to be decidedly challenging sleeping in the vicinity of the Riddler.

After being unconscious most of the day, in addition to a full night's sleep, Jon found he wasn't particularly tired by the time the guards announced 'lights out.' Which was almost, in a way, unfortunate, given the seeming lack of things with which one could occupy themselves around here.

Of course, there _was always_ his cellmate to observe. Although Edward never ceased to expound on the brilliance of his uncannily sharp wit, frequently exaggerating his capabilities far beyond the realm of reasonability, he did in fact possess a complex mind leaps and bounds more refined than that of 99.99% of the population. This, of course, naturally led to similarly complex fears. The man was practically a ball of tangled psychological yarn, each thread a different neurosis. Self-loathing, self-doubt, narcissism, compulsions, closet masochism, not to mention the dichotomy of both a god-complex and an inferiority complex…all brimming beneath a cunning intellect and a lexicon of knowledge so vast it put the Encyclopedia Britannica to shame.

But could the man at least have the courtesy to _shut up_ once in a while? At least at night?!

Perhaps he should have expected this, Jon mused as he lay in his own bed, wide-awake, hands clasped over his narrow chest as he listened to Nygma toss and mumble in his sleep a few feet away. After all, given that the man was always practically near to bursting with energy, both in mind and body, during the day, it was unreasonable to think that all those gears, turning so swiftly in the brain, would suddenly halt due to the replacement of the sun by the moon, and the natural, bodily need for rest. That particular train was just moving too quickly to have time to throw on the brakes and stop completely. And that mouth was simply too accustomed to exalting the brain above it for all that thought to pass into silence.

What his dreams must be like …. were they wrapped around intricate algorithms and codes or fantastic blueprints for impossible death traps? Or was it lost in the hooded darkness of sleep that the Riddler's insecurities truly rose to the surface, filling his sub-conscious with dread visions of failure or inadequacy?

A poignant question… with the latter possibility full of tempting opportunity – but alas, all he could make out was a perfect storm of gibberish. Half-formed riddles, the occasional series of numbers, a bit of an unknown phrase in… was that Russian? Jon perked up a bit when he heard the word 'bat' muttered, and turned in time to see Edward's furrowed brow disappear as he rolled away again towards the wall. The rest, if even spoken, was lost to his ears as climate control suddenly kicked in, air pipes roaring with the passage of huge quantities of cold air on their way to Fries's chamber.

It was incredibly frustrating, really. To have that much malleable material so close, yet not even be able to touch it.

…

Or could he? A grin began to form on Jon's face. After all, their agreement did not preclude psychological manipulation. Strange, really, that Edward should overlook such a blaringly obvious hazard. Then again, Edward probably knew better than to even try and control Jon in that regard. After all, it was as much his nature as Edward's riddle-habit.

And if the Riddler could have his riddles, then the Scarecrow could damn well have his fear.

But now he was presented with another dilemma. If he was to (attempt) to exploit Nygma's current state to study the fear beneath the superior façade – what specific fear should he bring to light? There were, after all, a myriad to choose from. Should he raise the father? Oh, but they had already touched on _that_ one, hadn't they, when Crane was not yet the patient and Nygma not yet so broken by so many bat-related failures.

He had, after all, grabbed at the opportunity to institute himself as the Riddler's doctor. A genius intellect, a mind frayed by anxiety-fueled delusions, and a masochistic drive and stubborn tenacity that kept him struggling to climb out of his self-dug pit even as it sucked him down deeper. He drew Crane as a shark was drawn to blood.

* * *

 _—Four years, two months before… It had been a Tuesday, yes? Yes… a Tuesday. —-_

* * *

 _A slightly younger Jonathan Crane sat alone in the metal-paneled room, hands clasped on the desk in front of him. He waited, as patiently as he would nearly half a decade later, when he would be shuttled to the Asylum in ignominious defeat for treatment himself. But for now…. now all that was in the future, and beneath the indifferent mask lay excited anticipation._

 _He watched silently as the only door in the room was pushed open, and the man he was awaiting stepped inside, guarded by two orderlies. Even in the ratty, prison-style jumpsuit, and hindered by the heavy chains around his wrists and ankles, Edward Nygma practically radiated his usual arrogance, by now well-known after his criminal antics about the city._

 _Hooded green eyes mocked him silently as he assumed his seat, taking in his doctor-to-be with a slight air of interest._

 _Jon allowed himself to be evaluated by his newest patient as he dismissed the guards, understanding that the man's current interest was mostly perfunctory and could either be completely banished or only moderately intensified by future impressions. But the knowledge that he would have to play his cards particularly carefully around this patient was not new to him. He was prepared._

 _For his part, he took the brief period of quiet as the guards left to study his counterpart in turn._

 _Red hair clashing terribly with the orange jumpsuit, Nygma looked… tired, beneath the challenging face he was putting on. Eyes cunning and perceptive as ever, but his features nonetheless were undeniably haggard. Months of planning, to be followed by such humiliating defeat and incarceration in a mental institution arguably more broken than most of its inmates, could certainly do that to a person._

 _He was thin, too, thinner even than he had appeared on television in that ridiculous skin-tight costume – another victim of the crap food Arkham's cooks had convinced the budget-mindful doctors qualified as 'healthful and sustaining.'"_

 _And still that smirk remained, daring Crane to speak, waiting to tear apart the doctor's words with a sharp tongue and cruel, precise acuity._

 _So Jon simply sat. And waited. The man's insatiable need for attention meant that he would eventually be moved to speak himself. He always found it far more productive, in the end, to allow the patient to begin first, anyway. When they felt in control of the session, they revealed more, and then it took only a little careful prodding on Jon's part to lead them in the desired direction._

 _The silence only lasted a few second longer before Nygma broke it with a long sigh, sounding disappointed as he leaned back in the chair._

 _"So….it is to be the_ silent _treatment, is it? Hoping I'll feel pressured to relieve all of my_ darkest _childhood memories onto your clipboard by the sight of –yet another blank face staring at me_ dumbly _? Trust me, I'm not_ unused _to the experience. I lived it in high school whenever the notion came into Teacher's mind to attempt engaging me in the curriculum."_

 _Edward gasped in mock horror, green eyes laughing at him derisively as he raised a hand to cover his mouth as if in shock, "Oh no! I_ have _revealed something of my past! Your_ ingenious _tactics,_ ripped _from the second chapter of Psyche 101, have succeeded! Oh,_ foolish me _…" he shook his head, shaking his head in mock despair as he dropped his hand. Then he raised his head again, studying Jon from across the table as he grinned darkly, "But then I suppose the knowledge that I was too intelligent for under-educated high-school level_ 'teachers,' _can hardly be shocking news,_ can _it?"_

 _Jon said nothing, didn't even change his expression. Just watched. And listened._

 _"Come, come, Jonathan," Edward chided, tsking as he shook his head again. "I must admit, when I heard you were going to be my doctor, I_ was _rather_ intrigued _. I mean, for one with such_ eccentric _hobbies, I rather thought the session would be at least a_ little _interesting."_

 _Now, that earned an eyebrow quirk. "Oh?" he allowed._

 _"Well," Nygma said conspiratorially, "_ I _won't tell, it is after all,_ your _business, but I must say, you've got_ quite _the operation running, downstairs."_

 _Jon swore he felt his blood run cold. A look of shock briefly flashed into his eyes before he reigned in his emotions enough to resume the impassive mask._

 _"I am sure," he began coldly, "I have no idea what you're talking about. Unless of course…. you'd like a small sample?"_

 _Edward smiled and shook his head. "I'm afraid your interests are not my interests, Doctor," he declined, "But if you do find that the urge comes upon you to, ah…_ test _me, I might remind you that those who can be bought by one can easily be bought by_ another _… you might find your supplies run_ thin _."_

 _Jon frowned. He obtained his ingredients through nameless, distant suppliers. He had been given perfect assurances of complete control, complete anonymity. How had Nygma discovered him? He was fairly sure he was still safe from the rest of Gotham, but he still felt uneasy with his secret in the hands of one such as the Riddler._

 _He would be having some interesting conversations later with his sources._

 _"You have an enviable talent for acquiring information, Mr. Nygma," Jon said grudgingly, breaking away from his venomous thoughts._

 _"It pays to always be one step ahead in the game, Doctor Crane, even if most of the other players_ are _just ignorant pawns. One must always be vigilant for the rare appearance of a_ queen _."_

 _"I suppose you see yourself as a queen, then, following the chess metaphor?"_

 _"Me, Doctor Crane?" the Riddler leaned back with an enigmatic smile, "I'm the_ hand _. I'm the one who sets the_ board _."_

 _(So, he fancied himself_ above _the game, a manipulating god. But then why the constant need to prove himself, with the riddles, the puzzles – always he had to be_ right _. Always he had to_ win _. He was so deeply steeped in the game he'd reached the point that he somehow thought he'd_ transcended _it. But no…even he must be aware of his obsessive behavior…)_

 _"Why even bother to play at all, then?" he asked, lightly probing._

 _Yet another patronizing smile. Then –_

 _"'Order is lost without me. I shackle without chains. I am but an illusion, but all bow under me.'"_

 _Crane resisted the urge to sigh. The riddles. He'd expected them of course, but still…_

 _"You prefer to control the game rather than step away from it?" he asked, concealing his boredom._

 _A blink. Then Nygma_ actually _applauded him, with a slow clap. "Well_ done, _" Doctor._ Correct. _Perhaps we may get along, after all."_

 _Ugh. He didn't want to 'get along,' with the man, he wanted a mind to dissect._

 _"But why? Surely the prospect of controlling so many inferior minds cannot be so appealing to you as to warrant so much effort?"_

 _"Appealing to my_ ego, _Doctor? I'm afraid I must inform you you're wasting your time there – I don't_ have _one. I'm much too_ brilliant. _But I'll answer your question, nonetheless…. It's up to you whether or not you_ understand _it, though…_

 _'Without me, the world would perish. In ignorance and complacence, I stagnate. Yet by just one man, I can remain alive.'"_

 _"You seek progress."_

 _"_ Correct _again, Doctor. I commend you. You came with your wits prepared, today, I see. How_ sensible _of you."_

 _(Yet he was still a slave to his own compulsions, else he would still be operating his death traps and not wasting away in such a sewer as_ this. _He refused to play the games of others, true. He_ was _above them. But he was forever trapped in his own game – constantly developing the most devious and elaborate plans only to subconsciously sabotage them. Mark as codependent – rotator. Dominant controller, passive dependent. Check family history. Likely experienced issues in parental upbringing, probably revolving around either one or both caretakers, with either addiction issues or an established codependent dynamic. Probe.)_

 _"You think progress is lacking in society today?"_

 _Edward looked at him incredulously. "If you've managed to answer two of_ my _riddles correctly, then you must at least have_ some _active grey matter up there. Surely this can't be revelatory insight to you?_

 _Crane sighed. "My opinion doesn't matter, right now, Mr. Nygma. I'm interested only in what_ you _think."_

 _"Well, I find the question a bit circuitous, really, seeing as I've already told you the reason behind my actions. I would not seek progress unless I found it so_ desperately _lacking."_

 _"And what do you think the end goal of this 'progress,' should be?"_

 _And, lo, another riddle began to pour from Nygma's mouth. Fantastic. Why had he been looking forward to this appointment, again?_

 _"'One can search for me an entire lifetime, and never find me. Yet one in possession of me need never live at all.'"_

 _"Perfection."_

 _"Quite. Although almost unimaginable to visualize in this gutter of a city, so I suppose I can understand why you need ask."_

 _(Addiction is seeming increasingly unlikely. If he had answered anything else, perhaps, but his desire to perfect indicates a programmed need to overachieve, probably instilled by a critical, impossible-to-please parent. Statistically speaking, and especially given the subject is male, this is far more likely to be the father.)_

 _"Why did you change your surname, Mr. Nygma?" Crane asked blandly._

 _The Riddler blinked, obviously a bit startled by the shift in conversation. Eyes narrowed, he decided to indulge Crane's whim out of curiosity._

 _"…. It was not who I am," he replied slowly._

 _"Nashton was your original name, I believe… from your father's side."_

 _"Oh, so_ that's _where you're going with this," Edward groaned, as he rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "Back to my deep-seated childhood traumas. And_ just _as it was getting interesting…"_

 _"Did he ever_ hurt _you, Edward?" Jon asked, dispassionate as ever._

 _Edward's form stiffened, almost imperceptibly, and his jaw tightened angrily. "I don't see how that is at_ all _relevant, Doctor," he said, his tone suddenly cold._

 _(Bingo.)_

 _"Oh, I think it's_ completely _relevant," Jon sighed. "It makes all the difference in the world, really, for you."_

 _Crane's expression dulled as he realized that even the great Riddler was unravelling under the most basic of psychological evaluations. Not that he had seriously expected much more, he supposed, but it was still…. Disappointing._

 _"Well," Crane sighed, cutting through the beginning of another angry tirade as Nygma reacted to the mention of his father, "I think that's enough for today."_

 _"What, that's_ it _?" Nygma snapped, breaking off from his rant. He looked insulted. "You're just_ giving up _? It's barely been 30 minutes!"_

 _"It appears I'm a bit overqualified for your treatment," Crane replied tiredly as he pushed in his chair, "I'll see if I can get you transferred to a more appropriate doctor. As it is, I'm afraid I have better things to do with my time than be insulted by a narcissistic man-child with_ daddy _issues." He opened the door._

 _"I'll let the other doctor's make their own conclusions, though. I do so hate to do others' legwork."_

 _"Now wait just a_ mi _—" Edward started, drawing his feet down indignantly. He hadn't even half-risen to his feet before the door clicked shut with a quiet, but indisputably final sound, his now ex-psychiatrist now firmly on the other side._

 _Slowly, Edward resumed his seat, the silence ringing loudly in his ears._

 _Outside, Jon handed the empty clipboard to one of the orderlies._

 _"But…sir…" the guard said uncertainly. The session, had, after all, been scheduled to last at least an hour._

 _"It should not be so short next time," Jon dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. "Now_ go _. And don't question me again."_

 _"… Yes, sir," the guard whispered, cowed by the icy glare he found suddenly directed his way. His colleague stared straight ahead, silent and doing his best to look invisible._

 _Without another word, Jon walked away._

 _He never bothered to check the Nashton family history._

* * *

The memory slipped away as Jon returned to the present. His brow furrowed.

Something was missing. Yes, he had no doubt he had been correct in all his conclusions, but they were still incomplete. If Edward's issues were all linked to his relation with his father, then he would not react so angrily or so passionately when presented with failure. He would instead accept it as the status quo, likely fall into a self-defeatist depression.

Yet all of his behaviors, from the obnoxious riddling to the eccentric dress, the constant self-praise to the ridiculous childness – they all indicated a fear of being ignored. Of being forgotten. Invisible.

Edward Nygma didn't fear ridicule. He was ridiculed all the time. That simply angered him.

No, the man feared being truly disregarded.

Why?

Perhaps Nygma did go deeper than he had originally thought. Perhaps he had been so ready to be disappointed by the man, the first genuinely interesting patient they had seen since the Joker (and even Jon could barely make heads or tails of that man), that he had been too brash in forming his conclusions.

Well. He had time now. He would correct his error.

His plan to meddle with Edward's dreams could wait. First, he wanted more data.

…

What a _lovely_ new toy the Batman had given him.


	6. And Four Years Later We Continue

Edward paused as heard the tell-tale hum of the elevator and reluctantly capped his marker, leaving his last riddle unfinished on the wall. It was getting harder and harder to find green markers around here…likely because he kept taking them… at any rate, he'd rather _this_ one didn't get confiscated.

As he moved back to tuck it safely into its hiding place, a ripped seam in the underside of his mattress, he shot Crane a wary glance.

The man had been almost completely quiet this morning. After posing two of his five allotted riddles to the man, Edward had chosen to save his remaining three for a later point in the day. No sense having his fun all at once, after all.

But with the exception of answering his riddles (which he did, correctly, both times, on the first try… _show-off_ ), Crane remained entirely mute.

He just _stared_ at Edward, carefully monitoring his every movement, mundane though they seemed.

It was… an incredibly off-putting experience.

Edward wasn't new to the concept of studying a person as a bug under a glass. In his formative years, he had done little else.

But it was quite new being on the _other_ side of the coin.

On the one hand, it felt a bit uncomfortable to be watched _this_ closely. Edward was, after all, a very isolated person. When he wasn't locked in Arkham or playing mind games with the Bat, he usually tucked himself away in Gotham's most secret of corners, holing himself up with an array of supercomputers and a few trusty henchman. Not for protection, of course – his own security system handled that task commendably – but mostly for groceries, and the occasional mug of hot chocolate (it could become startlingly chilly deep in the underbelly of the city, after all).

He even let Query and Echo take a sabbatical during these periods – he preferred them present only when he was in the midst of planning a major scheme. Otherwise… well, yes, he _did_ appreciate their staunchness, even if it _was_ only for the sake of monetary gain, but even _he_ found them to be a bit… _clingy_ , at times.

He was a spider in the midst of a vast, intricate web, weaving even more elaborate designs whilst waiting for the slightest tremble of a thread to alert him of a fly ensnared.

He didn't need to feel as if he was instead a testosterone-infused lion flanked by two females in heat.

So off the two went… usually to warm, sunny islands with white sands and attractive male waiters bearing alcohol in coconuts. He tended to find them far less… _tense_ …. When they returned.

But this… this was different.

Jon didn't harass him with inane conversation or insinuating body language (thank God!). He just… watched. With the air of utmost interest and attention.

And part of Edward found it to be a most agreeable sensation indeed.

No one had ever just… _watched_ him before. Talked to him (at him, more like), pried at his thoughts, his past…. sent him embarrassingly poorly-written fan mail – sure.

But he had never been _studied_ like this.

If he had an ego, he imagined it would have swollen to such absurd proportions as a state-prize watermelon. As it was, his posture became almost imperceptibly straighter, a pleasant tingling sensation fluttering at his core.

This part of him that didn't feel awkward under the scrutiny didn't want it to ever end.

…

And then a third part of him just felt straight out _annoyed_ by it.

"I know we're currently at a lack for photographic equipment, Jon," Edward drawled as he took a seat on his mattress, "But I think you've probably managed to commit my image to memory at this point."

Jon blinked at the unexpected confrontation, a number of different responses running through his head as he filtered for the most productive direction.

 _(Shock Value: 'Can't one simply enjoy the view?' – Appeals to his ego, unbalances him, but also doesn't go anywhere in particular and might send the wrong message. Would be amusing to watch his reaction, but, sadly, no._

 _Oblivious: 'I thought you enjoyed attention.' – Might inspire him to reveal something, although far more likely to encourage a condescending rebuttal._

 _Denial: 'I don't know what you're talking about.' – Ugh. No. Next?_

 _Silence: '…' – Well of course. How obvious.)_

Silence.

Edward raised a dissatisfied eyebrow, "You're rather _fond_ of that response, aren't you? Silence is certainly a useful tool, Jonathan, but it doesn't _hurt_ to use our _words_ once in awhile."

 _(Well, he's certainly very keen today. Let's rattle him a bit. Shift his attention.)_

"How _did_ you know about my experiments, those four years ago?"

Edward blinked, then glared at him. "You're very bad at staying on topic, you know that? This is our first session all over again."

 _(Well done, Edward, you're catching on.)_

"And really… you _have_ to ask? I'm _E. Nygma._ I deal in secrets. It is my business to be aware of every political bribe, every underhanded deal, every _illicit exchange,"_ he paused to quirk an eyebrow pointedly in Jon's direction, "that goes on in this city. Most of your suppliers received their information from _me_."

"And in return they betrayed _my_ confidentiality to _you_?" Jon asked, feeling his ire rise. This hadn't actually been the direction he'd wanted this to go, but he was so incensed by the thought of being double-crossed that he allowed the slight tangent.

But Edward only tutted, shaking his head.

"I already _told_ you, Jon. I am connected to _everything_ that occurs in this city. The first time you started looking for materials, I _knew_. The first time you found a suitable supplier, I _knew_. I _knew_ the supplies were taken to Arkham. I knew they were secreted in the basement. Now, who would make the order for such contraband materials to be stored in a medical institution, right beneath everyone's noses? Why, only the very _director_ if the asylum, of course," Edward tapped his nose, "And who should be the director of the asylum but the very same professor dishonorably discharged from Gotham University a few years back for, shall we say, _unconventional_ teaching methods and an alarmingly intense interest in fear and phobias? It didn't take a genius to figure out why you were smuggling hallucinogens and other _fun_ chemicals into a place filled with Gotham's finest specimens of mental illness." Edward paused again, smirked, "Of course, no one _but_ a genius could have gotten that far in the first place. No one actually _told_ me anything."

"But how could you have known about the _basement?"_ Jon asked, aghast, but also, though he didn't want to admit it, impressed.

"I may not be a magician, Jon, but I still prefer to keep my methods to myself. It simply doesn't do well to reveal one's tools of the trade," he shrugged, continued, "Though, to be honest, there aren't many who would even understand me if I felt tempted to explain the intricacies of my machine."

"It's just strange to me," Jon said, deciding to go with the direct approach first, "that one who desires so much attention would also continually cloak themselves in mystery. Why do you _hide_ so much, Edward?"

A flash of irritation swept across Edward's expression – and was that? — ah, yes. _Fear_. Oh. _Delicious._

Jon fought to retain his neutral expression as Edward opened his mouth, the first lines of some pointless rebuttal doubtless on his lips. He would deny, of course. That was his nature when confronted with a possible flaw. But he had had to at least try the simple approach before getting his hands dirty.

And that small taste of fear had made it entirely worth it.

But Edward never even managed to get the first word out before they were interrupted, a strange guard knocking on the door of their cell to attract their attention.

"Hey! Eyes up here! You, Crane – " the guard entered the code and opened the door, tossing something in at the aforementioned's feet, "Put those on."

Jon glanced down at the cold metal chilling his skin through the thin, prison grade socks. Handcuffs. Padded on the inside to prevent any foolish attempt at self-harm. He looked up again at the guard.

"Why?"

"None of your business!" the guard snapped, then answered the question anyway despite his initial retort, "You've got an appointment."

"With?" Jon asked, reaching down to retrieve the handcuffs. Even in this single, fluid motion, he managed to convey his disdain, a superior adult indulging the ridiculous whim of a turbulent child.

"You don't ask the questions around here! A doctor."

"Ah," Jon replied blandly, "Well, it appears we shall have to resume our conversation at a later time, Edward. I have been…," he paused, his thoughtful expression belying the internal annoyance, "s _ummoned."_

Edward, however, wasn't even looking at him, his eyes instead fixed on the burly guard in a suspicious glare.

"Where's Janus?" he asked suddenly, as Jon stepped out into the guard's menacing shadow.

"Who?" the guard asked distractedly, motioning with his hand as another guard stepped up on Jon's other side.

" _Janus,"_ Edward bit out, "Our usual guard."

"Look, we take what jobs they give us around here, freak. You don't get your own personal _butler_ just 'cause you're extra crazy. Don't be shocked when a different guy shows up."

Edward said nothing, just continued to glare, before shifting his eyes to Crane's for a brief instant, then abruptly jerking his head around to stare stonily at the wall.

Jon looked at Edward curiously for a second, wondering. Then it clicked, and he had to hold in his immediate chuckle.

Of course. What Arkham guard would ever use such words as _nefarious?_

Edward might consider himself completely autonomous, but the man just proved over and over that even he was not capable of operating without at least some measures of human assistance.

Smiling slightly, Jon allowed himself to be led away to the doctors.


	7. Engineer Your Own Escape

Jon sat before the metal table, a standard feature in each of Arkham's identically colorless treatment rooms. It was cold, here, colder than it had been in his cell – perhaps the heating vents had been accidentally closed. Or perhaps not so…accidentally.

Fortunately, the thickly padded straightjacket he had once again been forced to wear kept out _most_ of the cold, so he only shivered a _little_ bit.

Damn fools with their _toys._

Perhaps, though…perhaps this time the idiots had actually had a rare fit of foresight. After all, he wore the jacket now to prevent any wanton violence towards his "doctor," not to hinder any ill-conceived escape attempt. And Jon could _definitely_ feel the growing urge to…. _hurt_ ….someone. He had been stuck in here for at least an hour, his muscles cramping and goose bumps settling on his skin under the coarse fabric, with no sign of his supposedly assigned therapist.

He knew what they were doing of course.

They were trying to establish _dominance._

As their former superior, he had to be disabused of any notions of power or privilege. And so they set about to do it in the most heavy-handed, sloppy manner possible, as typical of Arkham.

It was a petty strategy that almost _never_ yielded the desired results. Patients simply grew sullen and withdrawn, or gave the doctors whatever they wanted in order to end the experience as quickly as possible, even if it wasn't true.

The only people who ever used this tactic were pathetically incompetent and in desperate need of an ego boost.

Which boded _so_ well for the coming session, whenever this doctor deigned to make an appearance.

More minutes passed.

His nosed itched. He wriggled it irritably, in an attempt to dispel the annoying sensation, but possibly only made it worse. With an internal sigh, he resigned himself to ignoring it.

Of course, his nose only grew even itchier, as if to spite him.

He could almost hear the clock ticking by the seconds, if he strained his ears hard enough. Idly, he wondered what Edward was up to.

Probably thinking up riddles for his eventual return.

 _As long as I have something to look forward to, at the end of this,_ Jon thought sarcastically – and then the door suddenly squeaked open on its poorly oiled hinges – an underwhelming anticlimactic end to the long silence – revealing a pair of highly polished dress shoes.

Oh. _Dress_ shoes. Most of Arkham's staff could barely be bothered to wear a tie once in a while, much less garb their feet in expensive shiny leather and go strutting about as though they thought they were actually _valuable assets_ to their profession. It seemed the man was even more pretentiously arrogant than he had anticipated.

Jon didn't bother to do the man the honor of moving from his slumped position as he entered, followed closely by two orderlies – merely studied him through bored, half-lidded eyes.

Late middle-aged, balding, rounding belly, slightly puffy eyes (bloodshot – yes – oh, really? – but not yellow – he hadn't tanked his liver _that_ much apparently), ironed clothes, a doctor's coat that was almost blindingly white in its spotlessness, a stained wedding ring…

How _generic_.

How _easy_.

Jon rolled his eyes in disdain, and glanced over at the guards. They weren't leaving.

A delayed, _supervised_ session, no less. Oh, Arkham was laying it on a bit _thick_ weren't they? He fought to keep his lip from curling.

The doctor – a tag on his coat marked him as a Dr. Wilson, M.D., PsyD, blah blah, all degrees that meant _nothing_ as far as the man's actual competence – began speaking as he pulled out the other chair and laid his clipboard on the table, apparently oblivious to his patient's disgust.

"I apologize for any delay, Mr. Crane – there was some paperwork I _absolutely_ had to have filed. But we're all ready to begin now," he flashed a thin, fake smile at the other man.

Jon's eye twitched, but he made no other response. The removal of his title was meant to rile him, doubtless to feed the erroneous belief that he, like his new cellmate, suffered from narcissistic tendencies.

But Jon knew what he was and all that he was – he did not need the validation of some sad old quack clinging to his college degrees as his last salvation.

Wilson coughed slightly in the heavy silence, poorly hiding his disappointment at Jon's lackluster reaction.

"Soo…," he finally said, flipping through the clipboard without actually reading any of the pages, "Quite the life you've lived…. born in… Georgia, now there's a surprise… moved to Gotham and earned your PhD in psychology, with an emphasis on fear…and it seems that interest held a pervasive influence in the rest of your life. What's this – using students as experimental subjects?" Wilson looked up.

Jon looked back, thoroughly unimpressed. He made sure his expression matched his feelings, too.

Wilson cleared his throat with another cough. "Why don't you tell me something of yourself, Mr. Crane?"

Jon raised a haughty eyebrow to show what he thought of _that_ suggestion.

Wilson sighed and pushed up his glasses – judging by the design likely not prescription. Another stage prop. "This is only going to work if you participate in the process, Mr. Crane. I can't help you if you refuse t-"

"Help me with, what, exactly?" Jon asked, his deep timbre easily rolling over the other man's more nasal tones.

The small eyes flashed triumphantly. "Well," he replied smoothly, "what _do you_ think you need help with?"

"Ah…" Jon exhaled, leaning forward slightly, "but I'm interested in _your_ opinion, _doctor_."

The man's lips thinned, as he considered his options. His patient, at least, was finally opening up, albeit only marginally. But it really wasn't wise to give that sort of information – not with any patient, and certainly not with this one, who was more than capable of twisting his words.

"I haven't formed any conclusions, yet," he said carefully.

Jon slumped back easily, "Well," he said slowly, "how…disappointing. _No_ opinion at all, then?"

"I try to keep an open mind," Wilson said stiffly.

"Hmmm…." Jon hummed disinterestedly, "Not if the state of your home life has anything to say."

It seemed to take a few seconds for his words to register.

"I…what? Excuse me?" Wilson asked, looking both unbalanced and affronted. But Jon knew better.

He was afraid. Just a little bit – but it was there, all the same.

Strangely…it wasn't as satisfying as usual to evoke the response.

He wondered at that, briefly, but then decided he could focus on it later.

He _was_ working, after all.

"Well," Jon said, detached and measured, "I wasn't aware that 'open-minded' individuals had to drink themselves to sleep ever night, then rush off to work in the morning, with all their clothes so considerately cleaned and ironed, just to escape their own home. What's wrong? Is the wife sexually dysfunctional or just not interested? Or perhaps _you're_ not interested anymore – is she too much of a control freak to get your libido running? But then, I'm surprised she would put up with the drinking, if that's the case." Jon stretched back languidly, relieving his stiff joints as much as he could as he assumed a pondering expression, "although I suppose that might be some form of sentiment. Or deflection."

"But really, quite a mask you try to put on, day after day – I wouldn't be surprised if you prolonged this session just to stay here a bit longer than necessary…" he managed a slight, _very_ slight shrug against the confining press of the straightjacket, then leaned forward, a dry smirk on his face, "But just between you and me, I wouldn't go for a career in acting. You're not very good at it, at all."

He leaned back again, taking some measure of satisfaction from the extreme pallor of Wilson's face as the man gaped at him, uncomprehending.

"This….this is highly inappropriate, Mr. Crane," he finally managed in a whispered stutter after a few seconds, "Your… _ridiculous_ allegations…"

Jon raised his eyebrow, again. "Please. I can't be the only one to see it. Tell me, is your mistress someone who works _here_? It would certainly fit."

Wilson jerked up so suddenly from the table his chair nearly toppled over. His face was now blotched with red – oh, he was _angry_ , now, on top of the fear? Well, that was boring. But the entire unravelling of this man had been far too easy anyway.

He hadn't done it for the mental stimulus. He'd done it to get rid of a tediously aggravating individual.

"We're done," Wilson bit out behind clenched teeth, and gestured at the orderlies, "sedate him and take him back to his cell."

Jon's lips twisted. Well that was just _mean_ , although not entirely unexpected. There was no reason to sedate him.

Then again, he thought, as the needle pressed against his neck, the only available bit of flesh with an exposed vein, this _did_ mean he got out of any more riddles for the day.

The door slammed as the sharp tip pierced his skin. Dreamily, he tallied up the score.

 **Dr. Crane: 2**

 **Edward: 2**

 **Arkham: 0**

He could live with that.

Burlap claws reached for him as the darkness closed in.


End file.
